The Third Day After Christmas.

Well, folks... it's official.

There's been a death confirmed here in our household, and it's a dirty situation, I'm afraid.

Yesterday, with the first batch of company having departed from this steaming heap my family and I call home, I settled in to some seriously heavy cleaning, before the second and third parties requiring High Entertainment arrived.

The kitchen required special attention, as you can imagine. Cupboards were swept out and reorganized, counters were wiped down, the oven was blasted with serious chemical warfare, the garbage was emptied, and all receptacles were thoroughly sterilized.

It was a Reformation, I tell you.

And, as with most efforts that are undertaken in this house, things looked a lot worse before they began to look better.

Whenever I clean like a demonically possessed whirling dervish, I actually DO have a strategy that I try to stick to: I start at the ceiling, and work my way down to the floor. Gravity is my friend, in this case (un-like the case of my developing facial jowls and droopy rear end. But I digress...)

Whatever filth that is swept, scraped, or blow-torched off of surfaces eventually lands on the floor, which is then vacuumed, and then duly scrubbed. In this way, I am fairly well assured of collapsing in exhaustion upon a relatively clean (albeit more than slightly damp) surface, once the ordeal is complete. This technique also puts me in a position to view the cats' feet, as they ick their way through the puddles, and then plop their dirty little botts down on a dry patch beside me.

All was going well, yesterday. So well, that the condition of the kitchen went from simply "horrible" to damn near "VILE". Crumbs and cobwebs were flying, not to mention smatterings of leftover currants and sugar sprinkles... All were duly swept "downwards".

And then, I climbed down off of my step stool, crunched over to the broom cupboard, and reached for my beloved and ancient vacuum cleaner. I plugged it into the kitchen outlet, but instead of the reassuring "SWOOSH" that usually greets my grateful ears, I heard... nothing.

I checked the power outlet, then the breaker switch. All in good order.

Panicking more than just a little, I cracked open my old friend's chest, so to speak, and began attempting emergency resuscitation: I cleaned the filter, and replaced the bag.

Still nothing.

No "heartbeat".

And definitely no "swoosh".

I then called in the paramedics, in the form of Sue down at the local VacMaster Centre. She rushed right over, as she always does.

But, sadly, this time, there was nothing she could do. She pronounced my beloved dead-on-arrival.

And, once she had recovered from the sight of the horror in my kitchen, she offered her deepest sympathy, in the form of a significant discount on a much newer, sleeker model.

My new Partner-In-Cleaning promises to be everything my old friend was, and MORE: never again will I have to make a late-night run to Sue's establishment, and pound on the door (having been locked-up only moments before) BEGGING for replacement bags. This baby's got serious cyclonic action, and a receptacle that requires nothing more than to be emptied into the trash after several months of use (or, more likely in our case, every week or so). It's even got a zippered "sleeping bag" type of sleeve that encases the hose, to protect my oh-so-delicate floors and the legs of various pieces of furniture (har-de-har... Well, at least it will no longer make that disgusting rrrrrrrriiiiiipppppp-ing noise every time I haul it around sharp corners).

Yes, there's been a death in the family, 'tis true. Our household is in serious disarray at the moment, but not for long. For tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, my shiny new friend will be ceremoniously installed, and the old corpse hauled away to the recycling depot.

I have to say:

This must be the only occasion upon which I've been truly happy to report that something in my life "really sucks".